


Headspace

by cardist



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Space, Amnesia, Heist, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Temporary Character Death, Vertigo - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:20:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25802755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cardist/pseuds/cardist
Summary: Arthur and Eames meet in outer space.Except they're not in outer space. They're in limbo.
Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 24
Collections: Inception Big Bang 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time participating in a Big Bang. The best part of the experience was to see the [calligraphy](https://inceptionbigbang.tumblr.com/post/625227768662261760/flosculatory-inceptionbigbang-art-for) Flos made for this fic! I love it to bits, thank you so much for breathing life into these words!
> 
> I would also like to thank the Inception Big Bang mod(s) for a job well done and organized.
> 
> This fic was beta'd by none other than my favourite Q! Without them I am nothing...  
> Lots of thank yous to them for being Qsome. 
> 
> Apologies for being incredibly late with posting - but here it is. The complete fic is at 14k, and I'll be posting it in 3 chapters.

Arthur wondered if he would remember what exactly he used to do, topside.

Wondered if by the time the clock was up, when he would have to take the pill, when he would feel the foreign jog of waking up, whether he'd feel the rush of his old life coming back to him, only to realize he hated it. The way he hated life at this very moment, standing on top of a high deck, looking out at horizonless space, feeling empty and joyless.

He glanced wearily at the clock that overlooked the concourse. It read, with its four counterclockwise hands dispersed in three spherical apparatuses: 30:08:03:13. 

He wasn't sure how he knew, but it felt very much like 4PM. He vaguely missed the distant feeling of late afternoon sunshine on his skin, but the feeling was fleeting.

The concourse under him swarmed with pedestrians. Everyone had somewhere to go, something to do, someone to go back to. The sounds of sliding doors and escalators humming and people whispering echoed faintly under the dome like murmurs of lost ghosts. 

Despite having no one to go back to, and nowhere to go, Arthur did have something to do.

Or rather - someone to kill.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
His mark tonight lived down at Terminal 0 near the old takeoff docks, in a shoddy basement floor cell of a grunge-bauhaus complex with dimly lit hallways and glitchy sliding doors. Which meant that Arthur had to take the tube shuttle, wear something less conspicuous than a suit, and be subject to distasteful and outdated art. All items here being prospects he absolutely dreaded.

Unsurprisingly, the tube trip had been horrible. The first thing he did when he arrived at T0 was throw up into a dumpster behind a bar. The myriad of neon signs that hung overhead really didn't help, and neither did the electronic music that filled the air. But eventually the nausea stopped, and he could finally feel the linoleum floor beneath him as well as the light but familiar pull of artificial gravity. Small mercies.

"Bit early for a hangover," someone said from behind him.

Arthur exhaled, laughing shortly, but not saying anything. Oh how he wished this was something as mundane as a hangover.

"Hair of the dog, on the house?"

Arthur straightened up, realizing he had stained the front of his shirt. "I'm not intoxicated," he said, frowning deeply. "Unpleasant tube trip," he clarified.

The man (interesting lips, three-day stubble, dim olive eyes) tossed a bag of trash in the bin, then approached Arthur. Arthur took a step back.

"Ah, sorry. I didn't mean to startle you, kitten. Just wanted to offer a handkerchief."

Arthur grimaced, bristling. "Don't call me that."

The man retracted the handkerchief and scratched the back of his neck. "How about a glass of water? You look poorly."

"Leave me alone." Arthur departed, not bothering to look back.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Apartment cell T0B17E was empty, according to Arthur's thermal imaging device. He punched the master key code into the worn number pad and waited for it to override the system. The plug door slid open moments later without any complications.

The place was messy, as expected. He gave the cell a cursory once-over, determining the darkest corner where he could wait until the hour of the deed.

When his mark, Undine Newman, finally walked in hours later, he shot her point-blank between shoulder blades, before she could even sense that anything was off. Blood gushed from the wound, suspended in the air before arching downwards. Her body fell to the floor like a feather. 

Arthur heaved a sigh, wiping his gun with the hem of his shirt, turning to the door. 

He took out his die, force of habit, fiddled with it, feeling its rounded edges, trying to find something familiar about itthem, but as always, feeling nothing except brewing uncertainty.

He looked back into the room, eyes searching for god knew what. 

The body was gone, and the floor spotless.

He left the cell, nerves prickling, vision tunnelling from exhaustion.

One down, he thought. Twenty-nine days more to go.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
There were no tubes running this late, so he chose to wait at the bar because the air conditioning of Terminal 0 was proving especially chilly at night. That, or the spacious and barren concourse was.

There were a few customers, but they seemed to be asleep, with their hats hung low, their visages so dark they could have been faceless altogether. Arthur settled at the bar. He took out his tablet and checked in for the day.

"You're back."

Arthur looked up. It was the man he had met at the dumpster. 

"Missed the tube," Arthur explained wearily.

The man nodded. "Abusive relationship with it, I gather."

Arthur smiled briefly then bobbed his head. "It's complicated."

"Well, I suppose relationships only work when they’re two-way," the man said. "So. What would the darling like to drink tonight?" He had wiped a glass dry and was placing it on the rack.

"Negroni. Lightly shaken," Arthur said, almost mechanically. He scratched the back of his neck. "With a water back. And no more relationship advice."

The man smiled and gestured tipping an imaginary hat. 

The drink was served momentarily, after a quick show of zero gravity free-pour into a globe-shaped glass.

The Negroni was stronger than Arthur had imagined. The orangey tang over the rim felt slightly like overkill, but then, it was exactly what Arthur needed. He let the drink simmer down to his gut, really feeling its burn, bitter edge and sweet aftertaste.

"So. What brings you down to Terminal 0?" the bartender asked.

A flash of Undine's silhouette flashed across Arthur's mind, but he answered rather evenly, almost deadpan. "Gravity."

The bartender chuckled, unsuspecting, shaking his head. Silence lapsed for a few moments, and the light fixture above them buzzed. There was a constant sizzle at the back of Arthur's mind that somehow got louder by the second.

Then, without preamble, the bartender asked, "do you still remember what it feels like, sleeping naturally, topside?"

Arthur swallowed dryly, thumbing his coaster, trying to dissect any implications or ulterior motives in that question. Because surely there was at least one. "You still remember," he said, accusingly. Softly.

The bartender put down a glass. He eyed Arthur carefully and then leaned forward, attentive. The scrutiny made Arthur uneasy. 

"Not exactly," said the bartender. "Not anymore. It's why I asked. How long have we even been down here? Feels like a bloody century. It's practically murder."

"I'll drink to that," Arthur responded, and drank from his glass. The world seemed to tilt for a moment, but then it tilted back.

"Who _are_ you?" Arthur asked, exhaling.

The bartender smiled. "Of course! Pardon my manners. Call me Eames. I'm a bartender down here. I own this little thing, but up there I used to be an actor. Of sorts. How may I address you, darling?"

"By not addressing me with pet names, for one," Arthur said. 

_Actor_. He hadn't heard the term in a while, and for a moment felt ridiculously envious that this guy, this _Eames_ , could remember what he used to be. What kind of name was Eames anyway? A surname? A first name? A nickname? A bad one.

Eames smirked. "But I don't use pet names on just anyone, you see."

"Don't flirt," Arthur replied, tired but mildly indulgent.

"Your laws on small talk are decisively stifling, dove."

"Then don't talk," Arthur replied, feigning apathy, twirling his glass, ice cubes clinking, his gaze settled on Eames's dim olive eyes.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Arthur woke up with a jolt, drowning in cold sweat, breath trapped somewhere below his chest, as if someone was suffocating him. 

Except no one was. 

The only person who could have even tried was resting - on the floor - his back against Arthur, a position showing an utter misjudgement of trust.

Arthur evened his breath and focused on the thread of silver light that streamed through the shaded porthole opposite to him. It traveled through the folds of the sheets, reaching his hand. He stared at it, and after a moment or two, retracted his hand, feeling inexplicably shaken.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Last night shouldn't have happened. 

Arthur shouldn't have indulged Eames. And Eames shouldn't have taken the 'no talking' as a challenge to speak in body language instead.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Arthur should have waited out on the empty concourse, cold be damned, and taken the first tube up. But he had missed it. He had missed the second one and third one too. He missed all of the first dozen tubes, as a matter of fact. His only consolation was that he managed to slip away before Eames woke up.

But Arthur should have spent the morning researching his next marks. He had five in the following afternoon, and some of them worked in places like T4 Capricorn Sector, where he would have to consider setting up for sniping instead. Five was five too many, so he really should have called it a day, left earlier, preferably last night before he had let Eames make him a fucking lightly shaken Negroni.

(Arthur shouldn't have liked being rough-handled into a cell bed barely big enough for a grown man like him, let alone both him and Eames, who was all biceps and broad chest and shoulders and Malin and Goetz cologne.)

But instead he had run his fingers down Eames's back, clawing desperately, clinging to the little shred of reality he still had left in him, enjoying the rocking of their bodies, the loss of his centre of gravity, the taste of Eames's laughter, the fingers digging crescent satellites into his thighs.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
They had talked about topside too, which shouldn't have happened.

"You know what I miss the most?" Eames had said, lying on his back, with Arthur tucked between him and the wall, on this poor excuse of a bed.

"I'm sorry, did I ask? Do I look like I care?" Arthur had mumbled while staring at what looked like a birthmark on Eames's hip. 

Eames ignored him. "A normal clock. The lyrics to songs. The prickly feeling you get on your skin before a squall--"

"Lyrics to songs?"

"Yes," Eames replied. "I can't remember any of them correctly."

Arthur tried to sing Edith Piaf. "Non, rien de bien. Non, je ne recherche rien."

Something did feel off. He was sure that wasn't how the song went at all.

"You speak French?"

"It's rusty."

"It's cute."

"Say that again and I will put a bullet in you," Arthur said, and then he ordered quite sternly, "sing something."

Eames laughed. "Uh, okay. Any requests, love?"

"No love songs."

Eames cleared his throat, then sang in a gruff voice that did things to Arthur, which he would never ever disclose. "Wise men say, we are fools dreaming, but I can't help falling asleep with you." He paused. "Can't even sing a fucking love song properly down here."

Arthur nodded, then looked away. After some thought, he said, "you sing abominably anyway."

Eames pouted for a moment before saying, with a certain amount of endearing chutzpah, "but I'm a brilliant fuck."

Arthur laughed shortly. "I've had better." Except no, he never had, but no one needed to know that.

Eames eyed him darkly.

"That's not a challenge," Arthur said, looking away.

"Oh, but it is," Eames said, kissing Arthur's bare shoulder.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Arthur shouldn't have told Eames his name, but that happened too. 

Shouldn't have liked the way it rolled out of Eames's lips, as if it were the only secret in this universe left to be told.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Arthur rolled his die on his desk first thing when he got back to his place. He stared at it, his breathing growing ragged, frustrated with his inability to tell whether it had landed correctly or not.

This time, too, he couldn't tell. 

It had to be a dream, but whose was it, and why? Why was he down here at all? And who was Eames?

He kicked his chair and banged his fists against the wall before holding his head down, vision troubled, senses thrown in a deep and bottomless whirlpool.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
27:11:35:12. 

For three days his marks were all around T3 or T2, far from Terminal 0. For three days he was unable to forget about Eames.

His neck prickled where Eames had sucked bruises, and sometimes he thought he could still smell Eames's cologne on his skin, no matter how many air-showers he took.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Other times, he would recall Eames's question about what he missed. He realized that he did in fact miss something: actual books.

All the books here were basically props. Most of them had titles, authors, but they were all mixed up, and all of them were completely blank, except perhaps parts of the Bible, or Hamlet's soliloquy.

Arthur owned a few of these confused books. An odd copy of _A Tale of Two Cities_ by Dr. Seuss, and one of _Huckleberry Finn_ by Shakespeare. They were both empty when he had acquired them, save for an erroneous summary on the first page, so he used them as notebooks, for research on his marks, or scrap paper he could draw mazes on to kill time.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
He didn’t plan to see Eames again. That night had been a slip-up, a self-indulgent blunder, an unexpected road-bump after a rough day, but that was it, and he had to get back on track, shake off distractions.

Focus.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
27:00:00:01

Time seemed to slow down, somehow, at this time of night. Maybe it had even stopped.

The stars overhead weren't moving. And Arthur found himself unable to focus.

(Ironic how the world felt so small here. But there were only six terminals after all, and he was bound to be assigned a mark down in the slums of T0. 

So who was he kidding? Who was he trying to fool?)  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
25:03:34:24

Arthur hated resorting to knives, fist fights, close combat. Hated being too close to his marks or having to touch them or see the details of their faces, distorted by the imminence of death. It felt too personal.

But this time his target, some towering bald street thug called Billy Nolte, had disarmed him and was holding him down and threatening to break his arm, or something boring like that, and it left him no other choice. 

Arthur headbutted Nolte, then grabbed for his automatic switchblade and slipped it upward into the guy's gut, putting force into it, twisting it mercilessly.

His shirt was drenched in sweat and blood, brine filling his nostrils. He picked up his gun, abandoned the knife, walked out to the concourse and slunk down against a wall, trying to find balance as a wave of dizziness hit him, his ears ringing, his temples stinging.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
The ringing grew louder and louder.

Arthur was afraid it wouldn't stop.

It wasn't stopping.

It was getting worse every time. He knew that, but knowing it didn't really help. 

The brake was loosening with each kill, and with each kill a part of himself went haywire. 

"Arthur? Shit." Arthur heard faintly. But before he could really register the words, or the familiarity of the voice, of the tone, of the smell that enveloped him in the next moment - he slipped into darkness.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Arthur’s first thought when he regained consciousness was that the bed sheets didn't feel like his. How did he get here?

"Good morning, princess."

Arthur sat up, wincing at pain that throbbed throughout his body. "How do you sleep in these polyester sheets?" he murmured.

"Same way you just did." Eames didn't sound so playful. He was sitting in his armchair, studying Arthur distrustfully.

Arthur lowered his gaze, unsure of what to say, until he came up with the worst thing to say in the worst tone to say it in: "You're not happy with our one-night stand."

"You and I both know that was not a bloody one-night stand," Eames said.

Arthur bit his lower lip. "It conforms to the definition of one."

"Don't talk tosh."

"Oh come on. I was drunk," Arthur lied.

"You can't get drunk down here," Eames said. 

Arthur flushed up angrily. He hadn't known that. "I'm sorry to break it to you, but the universe does not revolve around you here."

Eames sank into his seat, looking bored but still evidently cross. "Yet here you are."

Arthur looked around cautiously. "I need to go," he said - he still had three more marks to get rid of. He swung his legs over and got off of the bed. "I have work," he felt compelled to justify.

"Sure you do."

Arthur patted his pockets, mostly out of habit than out of doubt that his things would actually be gone. They were gone.

"My--" He turned to look at Eames, his pulse quickening.

Eames stared back steadily. "Yes, pet?"

"Don't call me that," Arthur spat, and then, as his eyes frantically scanned the room, said, "Where're my--" 

"On the desk."

They were there. His Glock. And his die. 

Fuck, Arthur thought.

"You don't need to explain yourself," Eames said. 

Arthur grabbed for his die first, then the gun. He then glared at Eames. "You touched my die," he said, accusingly.

"I did," Eames answered matter-of-factly, offering nothing more.

Arthur exhaled slowly, fiddling with it. "Well, it doesn't work so--"

"There's liquid in there, isn't there," Eames interrupted him, and then sighed when Arthur just looked at him blankly. "Liquids float differently here in space because gravity is different. So it weighs strangely in your palm, different from what you're used to."

Arthur didn't say anything.

"It's a clever thing, really," Eames continued, less clinical now. "A die loaded with liquid. People would think it always lands on a fixed number, when in fact, the number would vary. The trick is how it feels when you fiddle with it in your hand. You’d only need to feel the liquid tumbling inside, and then roll the die just for show."

Arthur took it out of his pocket and stared at it. "We're dreaming," he said, more than asked.

"I'm afraid so. Unless you like it down here. Though, the meltdown is probably indication enough that you don't exactly agree with this place."

Arthur sat back onto the bed, ruminating over Eames's sobering explanation. "You weren't an actor topside."

Eames smiled briefly. "Same difference."

"Do you have one too?" Arthur asked, referring to his die.

"A gentleman does not kiss and show."

Arthur frowned. "That's not how you use the idiom. Besides we haven't k--" He stopped himself before he could continue. 

Eames's expression softened. He exhaled and then stood up, and Arthur braced himself. Bracing for what exactly, he wasn't entirely sure. Eames eyed him with something that looked like... want. Like need. 

Arthur knew what was coming, and he knew he had the power to stop it, but for a moment, he felt like he couldn't move, couldn't say anything to move the conversation forward, somewhere else.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Arthur shouldn't trust Eames. He knew that. He knew that there was nothing good about this man, that his first instinct was to fucking flee, that nothing good could come of this because fuck, they were dreaming down here, they were in this crazy headspace where everything and nothing happened, where he both existed and didn't exist.

And Eames was a variable he had absolutely no control over, and this only meant that he was a bad idea. He was the epitome of bad ideas.

But Arthur let Eames close in on him, and then it happened, like a spark set in slow motion: Eames was pressing his mouth against his.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
It was a very chaste kiss. Almost a question, a conversation opener, a beginning to the end. A balm to a wound.

"I--" Arthur started, when Eames pulled back slightly, their noses still touching. 

"But I'm no gentleman, really," Eames murmured.

Arthur frowned, biting his lip. He was suddenly aware that they were close, which was a silly thought, but then, he felt calm rather than nervous. "So..."

Eames pulled away. Arthur didn't like that, but someone would have to bury him alive before he would even start to consider admitting that out loud.

"Here."

Eames handed him something from his pocket.

It was a poker chip. 

"It's an Ascona hybrid. Ceramic, with a fine metal in-lay instead of glass. 39mm, standard casino weight."

Arthur flipped it around. The one he was holding was only a five, but it was elegant in a retro way, and felt inexplicably expensive.

"Rub it," Eames said.

Arthur frowned but did as he was told. There was something embossed over the brand name. It read... _d...r...e..._

"Dream big," Eames murmured.

Arthur stopped rubbing. "But if both of our totems work the way they should, then whose dream is this?"

"We're not in a dream level, darling," Eames said, scratching the back of his head. "We're somewhere worse."

Arthur put down the poker chip on the bed. He hunched forward, propped his elbows on his knees, and held his head.

"Limbo," he murmured, sitting back, letting it soak in.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
"But we can't kill ourselves just yet," Eames said.

Arthur looked up from his gun. "Why not?"

"The sedative has to wear off, topside. Otherwise we kill ourselves into coma."

"How--" Arthur started. "How do you know all this."

"I worked in the industry before," Eames seemed to guess.

"But I can't remember much of--" Arthur stopped. His voice was unstable.

"No one remembers how the dream started. You're thrown right into it."

"I mean, I don't remember much of topside."

Eames narrowed his eyes. "You mean, like, why we're here? Because I can't either."

"No, I mean. You know you were an actor. You remember you were in this industry."

"Muscle memory," Eames replied. 

"Muscle memory," Arthur repeated.

"And then lots of imagination," Eames added, like this was just a recipe for strawberry shortcake.

"Let me get this straight," Arthur said. "You're basing all of this, everything that you're saying, on guesswork."

"Imagination."

"Guesswork."

"You're about one word off, love."

Arthur sighed heavily. "So you remember some things because..."

"It's the reason why you at least remember your die and what you usually drink at a bar. The reason why you know how to use your gun. The reason why perhaps you remember there's a topside at all. But you know, topside is just... a hazy memory to me too. And that's what it is really. "

"I'm tasked to kill people off," Arthur said before he realized he was disclosing something people would probably react negatively to, but Eames didn't seem perturbed. "I know I'm sending them back up," he quickly clarified. "I just-- that's always been my job here. I don't know much more than that."

Eames pondered. "You're killing them because otherwise no one would go back up. They'd have forgotten by then, about topside." 

There was a pause where both of them sat in their own thoughts. Then, Eames said, "you know, it's funny how we keep calling it topside."

Arthur frowned, not understanding. "Why's that?"

"Because - because there's clearly a word we've been avoiding here, subconsciously."

Arthur eyed Eames carefully. 

"Reality," Eames said, and the word echoed in his room.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
"Sometimes this place feels real enough that I forget this isn't actually my life," Eames said. "You know, when I said muscle memory, I truly mean that. I mean that if I didn't actively seek and ask questions in my mind about where I am and what all this is, my mind would never have bothered to tell me to check if everything's even real. And I think if I didn't check, it would lead to me forgetting details like. Like the fact that this isn't topsi-- _reality_."

Arthur didn't say anything.

"I ask all my customers at the bar if they remembered what it felt like to sleep naturally, topside," Eames said. "Most of them have no idea anymore. Most of them say they don't speak bar lingo. They think topside might have something to do with how I mix their juices."

Arthur looked at Eames, remembering that first time he had met him. It was already foggy. "How do we know when the sedative has worn off though?" he asked.

Eames studied him cautiously. "Your marks," he said. "How do you know when to kill who?"

It hit Arthur like a truck. "My tablet. There's an app-- a list that refreshes every day." He paused, thinking further, then added, "and there's the giant clock up in T5 with a countdown."

Eames frowned. "You can read that clock?"

Arthur nodded. "Muscle memory. I don't know. But yes. Last time I checked it said..." he couldn't remember. "Somewhere between twenty to thirty days."

"That clock is a proper mess. I had to build a sundial to get around my beauty sleep."

Arthur smiled briefly. They both succumbed to silence again.

"So we just wait," Arthur murmured.

Eames shrugged. "We just wait."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
_You're going to be on this list, one day_ , Arthur wanted to say but instead he asked, "Why did you kiss me?"

Eames grinned in a goofy way. "You look very kissable. You are very kissable."

"You're going to blame this on me."

"A gentleman kisses _and then_ tells."

"You're impossible."

"Well, I also wanted to prove to you it was more than a one-night stand."

"It was a one-night stand."

"Then why are you still walking with me on this gangway? We've been talking for hours you know. Or centuries. Can't tell." 

They had been walking on an infinity-shaped platform raised above the concourse, and somehow Arthur hadn't realized it.

Arthur didn't dare answer. 

"You're right. I can't do this," he said, with shaky finality.

Eames's expression softened. "Look. How about we make a deal. One date. That's all I'm asking. Then it's your call, and if you don't want to, we part ways, we forget about each other."

"A date is so normal," Arthur reasoned. "If we normalize this with something mundane like dating, we might forget we're dreaming."

Eames smiled. "I never said we'd go on a _normal_ date, kitten."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Eames's idea of a date was, simply put, a grand heist.

There was a bank up in T2 called Jupiter Vaults that Eames was especially interested in, mostly because it was guarded by levitating spherical droids that were, according to Eames, 'sort of cute'. 

"No," Arthur said as firmly as he could. 

"Perfect. Here's the plan," Eames said, unrolling a few holographic blueprints mid-air. A screen with cyan grids appeared on one of the blank walls in his room. The lights automatically dimmed down.

"You have cutting-edge technology in this crummy T0 cell?" Arthur said. 

Eames gave him a look. "I wouldn't call this cutting-edge per se. What, do _you_ live in a cave?" he asked as he tapped on the blueprints. A three-dimensional hologram popped out. 

"No, I live up in T5," Arthur responded, then regretted it right away. Eames was looking at him now at full attention.

"Don't you have state-of-the-art stuff up there?"

"I write my notes in notebooks," Arthur quickly explained, trying to discourage Eames, but as always, he was too late. "You know. It's more... homey..."

Yeah, he was too late.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Arthur's cell was a full suite cell with a spacious master bedroom, a sitting room with an L couch, a kitchenette and a bathroom the size of Eames's entire studio. And in his bedroom, opposite his king-sized bed, was a panoramic view of the space colony as well as several constellations.

Eames stood next to the glass pane, looking out. "Can't believe you stayed twice in my twin-sized bed with a view of the gutter while you have _this_."

"I'm not the type to bring strangers back here before three dates, at least," Arthur said.

"So... I'm an exception."

"You said you knew how to activate a field simulation function."

"I've never been in this cell ever, Arthur. I have no idea if a field simulation function even truly exists. I've just heard rumours."

Arthur narrowed his eyes. "I'm never trusting you again."

"Wise but late decision," Eames said, before walking to Arthur's night table and opening up a control panel there.

"What are you--" Arthur started, marching across the room to get to Eames.

A screen popped out under Eames's fingers, and he started scanning the options carefully. After a few taps of his fingers, the room submerged in darkness.

There was a moment of pregnant silence where absolutely nothing happened.

"Fascinating," Arthur deadpanned.

"Hold on, will you, love." Eames's voice betrayed a modicum of embarrassment. 

Arthur smiled briefly and waited for his eyes to adjust to the dark. 

He sat on the edge of his bed and looked out the window. Slowly but surely, the room began to glow delicately with starlight. If he focused enough he could even see the reflection of dust moving in the air, above the back of his hands, the sheets and walls.

It was strange how calming it was. Funny how he had never been able to simply enjoy this kind of quiet immensity before. 

Suddenly, the room woke with thin cyan lines and webs drawing themselves across, building surfaces and blocks, new colours and shapes, and Arthur watched, followed them around until light reflected on Eames's face, a mix of yellow and turquoise, brushing his features.

"See, I told you so," Eames said.

Arthur's room was now an exact replica of the entrance lobby to the T2 Jupiter Vaults. "Fuck," Arthur murmured.

"By the way, what's this little curio?" Eames asked, holding an object up.

"That's a thermal imaging device."

Eames nodded, frowning at it. "Seriously. Are you from like, Paleolithic ages or something?"

"Shut up."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
"The JV building has three floors beneath its lobby that protrude downwards from the terminal, separate from BF residential cells, so no luck getting there through the sewage system. These are pictures taken from the T1 East concourse that has a decent view of the JV basement segments. The system has calculated the approximate dimensions of each floor. We're looking at a good three meter height for each, which means--"

"What are we even stealing?" 

"Not important."

"Yes, it is, Eames," Arthur said. "Specificity and motive would both be very much appreciated here. Some would even say they are fundamental to any endeavour."

"Which means they're overrated."

"Would you like to go on this date _alone_?"

"..."

"Specificity. Motive. Great things to have in your arsenal."

"Your arse would be a lovely addition to my arsenal--"

"Yeah, you're on your own," Arthur said, waving the holographic screens off and kicking Eames in the shin.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
"How's the plan going?" Arthur asked after he got back from a series of assignments. He took off his jacket and put his weapons away in the entrance armoire. 

Today had been mildly okay. The vertigo spells had become relatively tolerable (either Arthur was getting used to them, or Eames's presence helped in some sense, kept Arthur from suffering alone in silence), and the marks had been commendably cooperative.

"I spent the whole day trying to hack into the system so I could figure out what they keep down there because _someone_ wanted _specificity_ instead of some good old mystery and suspense. You know - shouldn't a uniquely ambitious date with an enterprising thief be motive enough?"

"Any luck on the hacking?" Arthur asked, dismissing Eames's digressions.

"Yeah, after like forever and a day," Eames grumbled.

"So you were working on this before I went out?"

"Do you know what forever means at all?"

"You could have just asked me. I have a master key passcode to everything in this colony. You know. Because of my line of work."

"You what."

"You heard me," Arthur singsonged. "I also have access to the blueprints. I recall finding them inside _Crime and Punishment_ by Mark Twain, at the National Ursa Minor Library in T4." He took another sip of water nonchalantly. "So. What _do_ they keep down there in the vault?"

Eames sighed. He opened a new screen and showed Arthur his findings. "There are precisely two items in the B3 vault. One is a six nines fine golden chest, filled with the seven wonders of the world. The second is an old and tattered cardboard box sealed with high-quality tape. Both belong to owners who no longer exist in the colony."

Arthur squinted. "A cardboard box?" He rotated the holographic 3D picture.

"I knew you'd feel the same. It screams, 'I only open for the worthy,' doesn't it?"

Arthur blinked. "You mean to say you've set your eyes on--"

"It would make such a brilliant addition to your collection of palaeolithic items. Adds a little bit of je-ne-sais-quoi. Don't you think?"

Arthur's jaw tightened. He went to the kitchenette and grabbed a bottle of red wine from a glass cupboard.

"I'd like some too, darling," Eames said. He stood up, gaze down before glancing up at Arthur. He was smiling softly.

For a moment, Arthur had a flash of Eames at the dark and dingy bar down at T0. Eames pouring gin and vermouth and campari on the rocks. Eames with crinkling eyes, subtle smiles. 

"Arthur?" Eames murmured, worried.

Arthur looked down at the bottle. He twirled his switchblade absentmindedly, stuck it in the cork and pulled it out in two smooth maneuvers. 

Eames was giving him that smile again.

"That was kind of...," he said, his voice husky, his eyes a shade darker. "Erotic."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
They spent days and nights like this.

Bantering, flirting, talking, endlessly. Arthur making Eames smile over again and again.

And Arthur sometimes couldn't help smiling back. Couldn't help dimpling.

Couldn't help liking the way Eames was looking at him.

Couldn't even begin to describe it.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Eames stayed over most nights, and if not, Arthur stayed at his, especially after assignments in T0, especially after Arthur realized that he slept better on Eames's cotton shirts than his own silk bedsheets.

They figured a plan, tested the execution, staged possible situations and complications, drew escape routes in the air, through the blueprints, through space and stars and galaxies too far for the naked eye to see. 

If Arthur thought about it, he would say that Eames had deceived him, completely. Sometimes their gazes would cross, linger, say more than their occasional silence, or frequent banter. It was a comfortable but liminal place between dream and reality. 

That was when Arthur realized Eames was getting everything way before the first date.

They were lying on their backs, gazing up at stars, and Eames would say how escape plan C looked a lot like the Cassiopeia constellation because the entrances were misaligned in each segment of the basement vaults.

They looked up at a panoply of stars like they were not under layers of dreams. They were looking at them for the first time, as if the stars were real.

"But they aren't," Arthur whispered.

"No, they aren't," Eames had agreed, just as quietly.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Eames went to open an account in JV the next day, to gather intel on the droids themselves. He explained how usually his instinct was to target the glaring vulnerability in any security system: human staff members. But that was not applicable in this case, and thusly, the droids posed a greater challenge. They changed the game, subverted the formulaic and traditional approaches (charm and flirt and deceive) a con artist could normally use to their advantage.

Eames came back after a morning at the JV with a few theories already on how they functioned, their ticks and tocks and algorithmic behaviours. His most interesting finding, was that the droids were unable to multitask more than two simple activities at a time, and if the request by a customer was complex enough, they wouldn't be able to do much else but the one assignment.

"And what would be a complex enough request?" Arthur asked, genuinely curious.

Eames smiled. It was the subtle Eames-branded smile again that Arthur couldn't get out of his head. "If I ask them to deposit something wildly unconventional in my vault. They'll be busy. They'll be all on it."

"Define 'wildly' unconventional," Arthur said, eyes narrowing.

Eames sat back, his chair tipping dangerously, and put his feet on the table, his hands at the back of his head, thoroughly smug. Then he said, with almost impregnable confidence:

"Safe-keeping a memory."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Arthur was nervous. Restlessly nervous. Not really about the heist, but about the actual date aspect of it, about what would happen to this comfortable status quo they had with each other. This fine tightrope between strangers and lovers. 

Or what would happen if he said yes before, during or after the heist. Or if he said he wanted more. Or if he said that he was in l--

"I'm stepping out for a walk," he said aloud, scowling. 

Eames waved at him, unsuspecting, before looking back at his screens, dialling at the panels, the frown on his forehead reappearing like he was a rocket scientist rechecking unit measures. He seemed to dig the idea a lot now, that precision was key to true romance. Or that it was the way to Arthur's pants, at least.

And here Arthur was worrying about what to wear (this black suit or this other black suit?) and what it meant if Arthur decided he liked _liked_ Eames. Because liking Eames somehow felt very much like witnessing a distant supernova from light years ago happening right under one's nose. Explosive. Nuclear. A cautionary tale.

But also: a new dawn. A second chance at life. A Renaissance.

This was all assuming the heist went according to plan.

(But there was never such a thing after all, as a heist going exactly according to plan, without a single hitch to snag them on their way to their happy ever afters.)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SORRY I AM LATE  
> thank you for the comments and kudoses!

10:13:49:03

Except, Arthur did not expect the first snag to catch before the endeavour even started.

He stared at his tablet, completely frozen, his heart caught in his throat, his vertigo creeping up with every harried pulse.

He could only be glad that he was alone. He wasn't sure what would have happened had he found out while with Eames. Eames would have read it right off his face, Eames read everything right off his face.

And then what? Then Eames would have probably kissed his temple and said it was okay.

But it wasn't. It sure as fucking hell wasn't.

Yes, it was true that Arthur had been expecting this, but he had forgotten, and for some reason he hadn't expect it now, just a day before their planned heist.

He switched off his tablet, squeezed his eyes shut, tried to breathe.

But the vertigo and nausea made him keel over, made him open his eyes so as to regain a little more balance, made him choke on his breath because with each inhale the dizziness amplified like a crescendo. Mixed emotions bursting at the seams. 

He bit down on his lip and tried to tame them. Suppress them, push them back in.

He was going to go back to his cell and he was going to argue with Eames about apparel or something, and he wasn't going to let on anything.

He was going to keep Eames for as long as he could. He was going to defy the laws that dictated his duties, to follow those that his heart dictated, for once.

So the feelings eventually did ebb. So the feelings eventually did go away.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
10:02:45:23

He had forgotten about the countdown. Time was strange here. When one didn't look, it flew by quickly. When one did, it was like watching a second stretch into a long and tedious history of nothing. 

Ten more days, and this would be all over. It was both incredibly far away and too close before them to see.

How long had he even been down here?

Strange how they kept referring to space as 'down here', as if they were in fact deep in the ocean, and nowhere beyond the limits of the sky.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
09:19:34:01

"Hey. Are you okay?"

Arthur exhaled steadily. "It's 4AM. It's a school night."

"Sorry, dove. Hard to tell when it's always dark out here," Eames said, unexpectedly solemn. He was sitting against the windowpane opposite Arthur's bed. "I just thought you've been more quiet these days."

Arthur pushed himself up, instantly worried. "Are _you_ okay?"

Eames lifted a spherical glass to his lips and drank from it.

"Yeah," Eames said, with evident strain.

Arthur bit his lip. "Nervous about tomorrow?"

"Nah," Eames murmured. "'m confident I'll win your heart. And finally get to know the contents of that cardboard box. It's not that. It's not that at all." He chuckled nervously. "It's just."

Arthur tilted his head, waited.

Eames laughed, throwing his head back, looking upwards. But his laughter died shortly. 

He was looking at the stars above.

"Just what?" Arthur said.

"Just remembered something," Eames whispered. "Something nice."

Arthur waited a beat or two. "You're not going to elaborate."

"Remember," Eames said, "when we tried singing songs and the lyrics came out strange?"

It was a fading memory, but Arthur still did. "Sure."

"Well, I think we should use that as some sort of anchor," Eames said. "Like a compass."

"For--"

"So that we know we're still dreaming."

Arthur frowned. He looked in the direction of the dice and poker chip on the night table.

"Totems tell us if we're in someone else's dream or our own, but we're in limbo. That's no one's dream," Eames pointed out. "Totems don't help telling us whether we're still here or not."

Arthur worried his lip, pensive. "You often forget this is all a dream?"

Eames looked back down, gaze locking with Arthur's. He was stern when he said, "of course."

Arthur nodded uneasily. He had sort of forgotten already, too. If Eames hadn't brought it up, his mind would never have questioned it. And the less he questioned it, the less he remembered to. 

"Wise men say we are fools dreaming," Eames murmured evenly.

"Non, rien de bien," Arthur whispered back. He exhaled, uncertain about how he was feeling. Something between sobering and horrified. Then a thought crossed his mind.

"Books," Arthur said, inexplicably nervous. "They usually have words in them."

Eames nodded. "Yet they don't have words down here." He got on his feet and marched across the room to grab a book from the counter. He flipped through the pages, rather subdued.

"That's another..." Arthur said. "What did you call them?"

"Anchor, compass, pointer, paradoxes, what have you."

"Paradox. I like paradox."

"Doesn't matter," Eames said, closing the book. "Just remember them. They're our only clues."

Arthur nodded.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
08:06:03:56

The heist began with an early dinner at Eames's bar. T0 was as deserted as the space outside. Arthur fiddled with the closed sign at the window, feeling inexplicably like he was standing at the edge of the universe, at the edge of time.

Eames tried to make something like a Caprese grilled chicken pasta salad, but there was only so much one can do with the food they had in the colony - eighty percent of it were in the form of tablets, pills, granola bars and energy drinks.

"Where did you even get chicken?"

"Soy chicken, I'm afraid."

Arthur appreciated it anyways. At least the wine was real. Or as real as things could get down here anyways.

"You do realize that we're at least three men short," Arthur murmured.

"It wouldn't be very romantic if it's crowded," Eames said.

"Yes, and a herd of droids all over us would be."

"Jealousy looks good on you."

"I'm serious, Eames, I'm not sure this is a good idea."

"You have a master code to every door in this colony. There's absolutely nothing we should be afraid of."

"That's the type of confidence that'll trip you sooner than later. Some call it arrogance, and I wouldn't disagree."

Eames sighed. "This isn't very romantic if we're going to argue semantics before it even happens."

Arthur nodded, a little relieved. "I'm glad we're on the same page."

"Look, if anything goes wrong, just shoot me."

That made Arthur flinch. 

"I know I'm on your list. There's barely anyone left, doesn't take a genius or a psychic, Arthur."

"I can't bring the gun," Arthur said. "The metal detector - remember?" 

Eames smiled. "I'll say I'm depositing it."

"I won't do it."

"You'll do it."

"Eames," Arthur snapped. "I thought you had a plan--"

"I do. But plans can be flawed. Foresights can be wrong. I'm not infallible, Arthur."

"What--"

"For instance, I foresaw this dinner going extremely well."

Arthur shut up. He impaled a piece of soy chicken and took a bite, looking away.

"Look, Arthur," Eames started, deflated. "It'll be all right. This is limbo. My time's already up. And they won't kill you - you have the Reaper's immunity. This is a win-win situation. We'll meet topside and then it'll be a fifty-fifty chance you'll want a second date, but it's your call, and we'll be okay. All right, pet?"

Arthur drank from his spherical glass of wine, but the buzz wasn't hitting right.

_You can't get drunk down here._

"I'm not going to shoot you, so promise me you'll come out on top," Arthur said.

"Sing the lines, Arthur," Eames replied.

Arthur did. They were still dreaming. He was still dreaming. He calmed down a little, though it was more a feeling of exhaustion than calm.

And then Eames said, with a soft murmur. "I'll try my best, love."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
08:02:04:34

The JV bank was open twenty-four seven, so there was no optimal time to infiltrate it. There were clunky heavyweight droids guarding the entrance. Arthur could just about see the smaller teller droids inside, denoted by their brighter plastic colours.

Arthur and Eames stood before the building; it was unimposing and unsophisticated compared to neighbouring edifices. 

"It'll be the most fun you'll ever have," Eames promised.

"Because I do most of the work?" Arthur deadpanned.

"I did all the backstage stuff."

"Which I could have done blindfolded in half the time you used."

"...I like this blindfolding idea."

"Eames."

"Yes, yes. Win your heart first, suggest spicy things later."

Arthur exhaled. "I'm not entirely sure you know how to court your love interests."

"Okay, but doesn't heist date scream sexy?" Eames whispered into Arthur's ear, his hand at the small of his back.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
They stepped into the lobby, and were immediately attended by two levitating droids. They were spherical and looked deceivingly amiable. They had tiny red eyes, and where there should logically be a mouth, was a screen on which read in green digital letters: "Welcome 2 JVB."

"Good evening gentlebots, I would like to make a deposit," Eames said, sounding posh. The droids acknowledged the request but then turned to regard Arthur, clearly waiting for the reason of his presence. 

"My other half," Eames explained quickly. Arthur pretended he did not hear it.

The droids blinked twice before acknowledging and proceeding, their screens reading "<3_<3", which made Arthur roll his eyes. They then led Arthur and Eames across the hall to a teller droid.

So far everything was according to plan. Eames explained he needed to deposit a vintage pistol ("It's a 21st century Glock, not a Neanderthal toothpick, Eames," Arthur had whined). They then passed the metal detectors with flying colours; Eames charmed the non-existent pants off the droids, intrigued them with a fake anecdote about how he almost became famous implanting an idea into someone's subconscious, and before Arthur could really wrap his mind around what was going on, they were being led into B1 of the Jupiter Vaults.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
The thing about the architectural nonsense of the bank was that it was made to solely accommodate droids. There was a tube that could only fit one human at a time that served as a sort of elevator between each level, and they weren't all aligned: they needed to use a separate elevator in order to get to a lower floor. The first tube that led down to B1 was about a dozen meters away from the tube leading to B2, and the third tube was another dozen meters away from the second.

Since the basement vaults were maintained by non-humans, they were also designed to have zero gravity when clients weren't present. There was a panel in the opposite direction of tubes where a droid would be needed to deactivate the zero-gravity field should a customer need to step in. 

B1 and B2 were walled with safety deposit compartments, all about the size of a shoebox each. B3 was a space with an unbreakable glass safe-lock chamber, containing two items: the golden chest and cardboard box. 

Their trump card, and really their only card, was that Arthur had a master passcode that could override everything. The tubes, the zero-gravity panels, the safe in B3. And it could technically be done remotely from any one panel with a keyboard and dial - even from his laptop at home - had there been just one more member in the team. 

So Arthur's first and only challenge in the entire endeavour was getting from the second tube to the B2 control panel without gravity.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
The moment the droids were finally informed of the complexity of Eames's request was the moment Arthur's assignment officially commenced.

"It's a memory, lads, not the theory of everything," Eames goaded as the droids grouped together around him, discussing angrily about how things should proceed.

Arthur gave Eames one last look. 

He held his breath and stared. Memorizing Eames's face. His stubble, the curve of his lips, the depth of his eyes. Arthur searched for reassurance in them one last time.

As scheduled, the surveillance cameras rotated and exposed their blindspot. Arthur turned back to look at Eames again.

Eames smiled, and Arthur couldn't help but smile back.

_Be right back,_ Arthur mouthed, feeling adrenaline rise when Eames quirked his smile wider. He closed his eyes and inhaled, and somehow the smile was still there, ingrained in his mind, even after slipping into the tube elevator and falling through with a sickeningly soft brush of air.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Arthur hated space. Hated the feeling of weightlessness, not being grounded. 

When he stepped out of the elevator he felt the lack of gravity but didn't pause to think about it. He grabbed onto a rail at the tube, positioned himself with his back towards the control panel on the wall, bent his knees forward, and then pushed himself backwards off the elevator. 

The panel was a couple of meters above the floor, so he would need to levitate upward but not too much. When he got to it, he quickly punched in the master code, adjusted the gravity and oxygen of both B2 and B3 before sliding down the wall slowly, fingertips soft against it, as the commands took hold. When his feet touched the floor, he exhaled, listening attentively. 

It was eerily silent.

He didn't like it, but he forced himself to move and advance to the other elevator without looking back.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
The B2-B3 tube elevator stopped way above ground. He stayed in it and gave the new floor a cursory glance.

B3 looked like it was the entrance hall of space. The walls were transparent and looked out into stars and darkness all around like an upside-down dome. On closer look, Arthur wasn't even sure that was the case - perhaps he was the one who wasn’t right side up. In fact, he was growing uncertain about whether there was a dome at all. If it weren't for the large power box sitting at its bottom, Arthur wouldn't have thought there was a bottom at all. 

On the other hand, there was a deck and gangway that led to the safe, but it was a little farther off than Arthur had anticipated. The blueprint had shown that they were connected, but in truth they weren't: there was a height difference that a bird's eye view would miss.

"Shit," Arthur said. It was easy to make it down, but the journey back up would be impossible without switching back to zero gravity. The control panel here was high above ground too, clearly made to accomodate the droids and nothing else. 

Arthur and Eames did anticipate this sort of scenario, but it would mostly rely on Eames recognizing that Arthur had a predicament for it to work.

Arthur shut his eyes and inhaled deeply. He imagined Eames, recalled the way he worked on the heist plans. Remembered Eames describing escape routes like they were just constellations in the sky.

Arthur opened his eyes, looked down and took a deep breath, before taking the leap.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Arthur landed on his feet. It was so anticlimactic he had to pause to really be sure that everything was still under control.

Space slept underneath his crouching figure. His gun was still pressed against his waist, and last he checked, this was still just a dream. He sang the Piaf lines again to triple-check.

He quickly moved down the long platform towards the safe. There was no number pad, just two dial wheels. He spun the combination on both, another round on the relock gimmick, and once more before a system depressurization. Finally, the door opened shyly.

Arthur didn't dare breathe. He carefully pushed the door further open.

Before him were the two boxes.

He eyed the golden one, then quickly studied the other. They were both on separate pedestals. There was nothing else in the room save for a holopanel and a box of maintenance tools left underneath it. Arthur put his gun down so that it could block the door hatch from closing on him before stalking to the panel. Everything seemed normal, but he couldn't control gravity through it, so the problem remained.

He bent down and picked the box of tools, estimating its volume and weight.He took out a couple of tools out and laid them on the floor before striding towards the pedestals with the toolbox. He lifted the toolbox next to the cardboard box, gauging the sizes. 

His fingers tingled. Sweat slid down his temple.

But then he felt it. A memory, a tug, a force of habit. In one quick move, done with practiced ease, he swiped the boxes around so that it felt like nothing had ever left the pedestal.

Nothing was triggered. No alarms rang. Everything was as quiet as space should be.

But he had the box in his arms now.

The job was halfway done.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Arthur waited around for a while, hiding in the shadows of the safe, but nothing happened. He tried the panel again though he knew there weren't any gravity control options on it. The lack of a dial function and full keyboard disabled it completely.

He looked up at the tube elevator, wondering if by now, with this much time gone by, Eames was going to go for plan D, E, or K, or just ditch Arthur.

Arthur hated waiting as much as the next living creature, but this was altogether crippling. The longer the seconds and minutes stretched, the longer Arthur had the time to doubt the whole mission and situation. 

He tried to sing the paradox song as he waited, but he couldn't bring himself to. The silence was deafening and tyrannical and almost impossible to break.

He tried counting instead. It helped, at first, but then when he reached 60, and then 120, he started feeling more and more restless.

At least counting helped put certain things in perspective; it made him realize how he had to come up with a new escape plan fast, before it was too late. He clutched the box tightly, looked up at the elevator, the high landing with the control panel, and then down at the dome, eyes scrutinizing the power box. 

With every count of 60 that passed, he understood with more and more resolve that there was only one way up.

And more importantly, that he would have to find it without Eames's help.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Things would have been so much easier if Eames's idea of a perfect date had been a simple dinner. Or limbo homicide. At least either would have been done by now.

Arthur set to work, putting the cardboard box down and taking out his Glock. Usually at this range it wouldn't be feasible, but he was going to take the advantage of artificial gravity to do the rest of the work. 

He aimed his gun and took a deep breath. The second he shot, it would be a race against time, and this wasn't part of the plan.

Eames really should have gone with something simpler, like giving the androids a paradox to chew on. How had they not noticed that Arthur had been gone for so long anyway? 

A vision of Eames sitting in Arthur's room, nursing a drink, looking nervous flashed by his mind, and for a minute Arthur hesitated.

For a minute, Arthur wondered something he hadn't considered before because he had been so busy being nervous himself.

What memory was Eames depositing?

And how would they extract the memory from him?

Was Eames okay?

Distracted, he waited a bit too long to shoot the power box, and B3 was suddenly submerged in red light, sirens resounding in the dome.

Maybe it was too late already.

Arthur aimed and shot thrice at the power box, with all the calm he could muster before jumping off the landing, into uncertainty, into the unknown.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
For a moment he felt like time had rewinded, and he was back at his apartment, looking up at space.

But in the next second, the room turned into the T4 concourse. He stood, going through the motions, searching for his old life in the reflexion of the dome glass. He made wild guesses in the dark, dreaded something he couldn't remember. 

Back to the beginning, he thought. If only he could go back to the beginning.

The scenery shifted again. He was standing in T0, staring at the sign outside of Eames’s bar, wondering if his choices here could be rescinded for wiser ones.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
The free fall turned on its head, and time its tail.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
When Arthur came to, head throbbing, he realized he had lost his Glock. It had likely slipped from him in the dive that had, too quickly, whipped him upwards instead of down, knocking his head against a railing.

He had damaged the gravitational forces manipulation transformer of the power box, but he hadn't accounted for the environmental change to be so abrupt, and for pressure to decrease this alarmingly fast.

It was a race against time now.

He caught the ledge of the elevator landing but barely made it inside the tube before his vision blurred from lightheadedness again. He held his head, trying to focus, pressing on a spot where pain throbbed. His mouth was turning dry and arid, his lips chapped, throat closing, and he felt something warm and wet running down from his ears. When he touched it, his finger came back red.

He let out a laugh of disbelief, thinking about reprimanding Eames for poor dating choices ruining his fucking attire, but he barely had the energy. He leaned against the walls of the narrow elevator, tucking the box close to his chest, hoping that by the end of this day they would be laughing and putting this whole disastrous date behind them. Eames had definitely earned the gold medal for the worst first date ever, hands down.

The tube went up, bending to Arthur's quiet commands. Thankfully, he only had to jump up when he arrived at B2, and use the lack of gravity to float to his next terrible tube ride, but when he arrived at B1, he couldn't stand on his own feet, and his head was far too heavy.

Arthur had expected a war zone on B1, or some other worst case scenario for Eames, because really Arthur was a pessimist at heart, but he found neither to be the case. The basement was empty, and Eames was there already, waiting for him, looking only a little worse for wear. He wasn't sure what to make of it. Arthur was suspicious at first, sure that it was a trap, but then, he was so light-headed he couldn't think properly.

"Shit, Arthur," Eames rasped, picking him up by the arm, and dragging him forcefully across the floor towards the other tube, without a moment's pause. Eames was bleeding too, and the veins in his left cheek were glowing red and cyan, which didn't look good, but there was something steady in his eyes that sort of steadied Arthur in turn. 

It seemed Eames had managed to adjust the pressure on this level - which was emptier than Arthur remembered. Strangely, the safety deposit boxes were rattling, and there was steam coming out of the vents.

"Give me your gun, love," Eames said.

"Lost it," Arthur replied. "Where're the droids?"

Eames ignored the question and took a deep breath. "Let's get you to the lift."

"Can't. Not another tube. Please," Arthur pleaded, but he was getting more confused by the second and could barely keep his eyes open. 

He suddenly remembered the first night he had met Eames; the memory felt distant and cut-off, like it didn’t really happen to him. What had Eames said back then about Arthur and tube rides? He couldn't recall. 

"It's the last one, love."

"Not a great date," Arthur decided to point out. He remembered the night they discovered all the high-tech functions in Arthur's room. That should have been their first date. "Nothing happened, at first, and then all the holograms lit up a universe in my room and it reflected off your face and it was magnificent--" Arthur was rambling.

"Will make it up to you. Go up first, I'll follow.”

"What did you want the gun for?" Arthur scowled.

Eames smiled gently. "Unnecessary weight is all."

"The box--" Arthur was almost unaware that he was clutching it to his chest like a lifeline.

"Keep it safe."

"You'll follow." It was something between a command and a question.

"I will." Eames eyes crinkled, likely to distract Arthur from the emptiness of that promise.

Arthur was pushed into the cramped space. The glass door swivelled closed. Eames pressed his forehead against the pane on the outer wall of the elevator. Arthur reached out, in a haze, but only touched cool glass.

"Eames?" Arthur said.

Eames mouthed something that looked dangerously like a three-worded vow too much for Arthur to bear.

"Eames?" Arthur pleaded, begged.

He started banging his fists. What were these invisible walls that were keeping them apart? He didn't understand. Why was Eames there yet untouchable? Intangible? Like he wasn't there at all?

"Eames!" he shouted, eyes stinging, panic finally rising. "No, no, no no. No--"

The safety boxes burst, the floor imploded, space shattered. And Eames-- Eames smiled.

The sound of gushing air filled Arthur's ears, his vision, his thoughts. Lines and shapes elongated as the lift shot upwards. 

The smile distorted with the motion blur. Dark lines invaded Arthur's sight, his mind, his grip on reality, but he tried to commit it to memory-- Eames's smile.

The last Arthur would see of him.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
The clock on the deserted concourse stopped at 00:00:00:00.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
The loud buzz in Arthur’s ears wouldn't stop, and it was maddening. 

It had been days since the timer had reached the end, but all Arthur could think about was what would happen next, what would end this all, what would take him away and how.

He imagined the worst scenarios. Armadas of outlandish spaceships, alien invasion, acid floods, inexplicable implosions.

Perhaps he’d even die from this constant buzz. Perhaps it would never end.

He scavenged for tins, food tablets, and dehydrated packages in the furthest terminals, and camped at Eames's bar, trying to hold onto his memories that were slowly but surely slipping away. Whenever he wasn't hunting for supplies in the station, he slept. 

He could have been hibernating for all he knew. He couldn't measure time, and that was the true horror of his reality. 

Sleeping didn't always take the edge off things though.

He dreamed of Eames, his last smile, already a fading memory, then woke up in cold sweat, gripping the railing as if he were about to fall through the floor.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Sometimes he suspected that even if he didn't eat, he wouldn't die. But then the buzzing would grow louder, and his guts would twist and he'd be terrified, scared out of his mind, for no apparent reason. 

He had panic attacks every day. They wore him out, making him see flickering silhouettes and shadows of things and people who weren't there anymore.

Days grew long and nights longer. Things started making less and less sense to him. Loneliness gnawed at him inside out more than hunger did. And that was saying something, because it had been days since his last proper meal.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
He hadn't opened the box. He couldn't, didn't dare. He had a feeling it was something awful, he had a feeling he was holding Pandora's box. His instincts - like a voice at the back of his mind - were convinced it couldn't be anything else. The world was empty, empty of vices as much as virtues. It was best to keep it that way than to risk whatever was in there.

Best to seal his memories of Eames too.

Because they hurt him more than they gave him hope.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Sometimes he would walk past the Jupiter Vaults. The place had practically imploded onto itself, and was now a pile of rocks. The debris had slept long enough to look ancient. 

Sometimes it looked ancient enough for Arthur to forget what really happened there.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
At one point only a smile remained. And the smile turned into an inexplicable sketch of a far away story, like the thin crescent of a waning moon. It disappeared into the dark, out of existence, forgotten and lost to eternity.

That was when Arthur realized he was now truly left with nothing. 

The buzzing never stopped though. 

It only grew louder and unbearable, especially when he walked too close to the edge, too close to the frontier of the world, threatening to fall off it altogether.

Because even though he was frightened to his bones - of death, and what it meant, what it had in store for someone like him - he didn't know what exactly he was living for anymore.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
"What am I doing here?" he screamed into the empty terminal. "I could live on forever, couldn't I? But what for? What am I even so scared of?" Because he never remembered himself as someone who was so easily intimidated by anything. He grabbed a spherical glass and tossed it into the void, overwhelmed by passing anger.

He didn’t expect a response. He'd been through the whole space station so many times and not once did he find traces of anything or anyone else living there with him.

And, as he had expected, nothing did. 

But then his eyes locked on the box.

Despite the deafening buzz in his head, he managed to stand up and walk towards it.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
A familiar voice said, "I knew you'd feel the same. It screams, 'I only open for the worthy,' doesn't it?"

An even more familiar laughter. Familiar enough to make him wonder.

With a rusting key as a makeshift knife, he slit open the box.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Arthur wasn't exactly expecting the panacea, but he also wasn't expecting a cat.

One that was still alive, too, which made no sense.

"How--"

The cat (black, with white paws) looked at Arthur suspiciously. Then, ignoring him, hopped out and started conducting reconnaissance on the surroundings.

"I'm afraid you'll find absolutely nothing here.” Arthur paused. “Welcome to Space," he added gloomily. The cat flicked its tail. A moment passed, or two, but nothing happened. He sighed and left the animal to its own devices. He never liked cats anyway.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
What felt like a whole week later Arthur found out that the cat had a collar. Its tag read Schrödinger, so Arthur started calling the cat Shoe and letting it follow him like a shadow. 

Seasonless days stretched into weeks, disappearing beyond vision into the deep horizon of immutable space. 

The passing of time was impossible to tell, his only grasp of it being the speed at which his heart beat.

Soon, Arthur would forget time. Because soon, it wouldn't matter anymore. 

Neither time nor his beating heart.

The buzzing died off, but he had gotten so used to it that its absence just felt like more hollow emptiness.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
He got lost. The numbers and words that marked streets and signs had faded, chafed by obsolescence. The whole space colony now looked like the bare bones of a dream, the inception and conclusion of an idea long abandoned. 

He couldn't find his way back. Couldn't trace his steps. He turned and looked around, but his footprints had been swept clean. 

Shoe stopped next to his feet and started grooming its leg, unfazed. 

“Helpful,” Arthur murmured.

The cat narrowed his eyes, then stopped to give itself a few aggressive licks. Arthur bent down, watched, and more out of boredom than anything else, reached out to scratch the cat’s head. The cat ducked his hand and gave him a blank stare.

“Right, and hurting you would benefit me how?” Arthur said.

The cat considered the question seriously before conceding.

After that, Arthur felt a little less lonely.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Orange light, cool shadows. 

Curtains floating. The smell of burnt toast. Laundry tumbling in the wash. Bare feet on wooden floors.

The soft sound of laughter in the hall. The distance between door and bed. 

Home. 

Sometimes Arthur would try to imagine what a home felt like. 

Shoe was now the closest thing to it. Not that anything much had changed between them, but at least Shoe was alive while nothing else was.

It was their common ground. Being alive.

They wandered the moor of rubble and white sand set against dark skies. They probably walked circles, but there were now less and less landmarks to take note of. More and more emptiness. Things had become difficult to recognize in their desolate forms.

There was a brush of fur against his legs. 

He looked down and found Shoe staring up at him. Her round eyes asked, “when will it be you and me?”

Arthur couldn’t bear the thought.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
They slept on the cold marble floor of what was once some kind of luxurious lobby. 

He remembered the slanting light being dim when he went to sleep. It was dimmer when he woke up.

Shoe seemed to have noticed as well, but neither of them commented. They stayed huddled together for as long as they could. At one point Shoe nosed Arthur’s hand gently, and Arthur knew it meant they had to move on.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
They patrolled the area, searched for hints of life. On the way down empty boulevards, Arthur’s foot kicked a metal plate. Shoe circled it, her paws a few inches apart, twitching whiskers displaying something between fear and curiosity. 

Arthur bent down to study the plate, only for his fingers to brush against embossed initials.

The JV.

The Jupiter Vaults.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Cyan lines. The taste of wine. Foolhardy smile. A first date in zero gravity. 

The safe-keeping of a memory.

The beginning of a song.

Of two songs.

A smile, the last Arthur saw of him.

Jigsaw pieces scattered on the floor.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Arthur dug through the debris like someone possessed. Shoe pranced and scurried about. There was something fresh and enticing about the energy that coursed through him, like waves and waves of unrelenting high tide.

Arthur needed to know what he had left.

He needed to know if it was the last thing he did.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Eames.

The steel box read.

Eames: memories (2).

Arthur read. Reread.

This was it.

A thread of memory.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Cyan lines threaded into life in front of Arthur, forming a lone figure. Shoe hissed at them, but then quickly fell back, observing quietly.

Interesting lips, three-day stubble, dim olive eyes.

It was Eames. 

He was fiddling with something, a small artefact that looked different at different angles. 

A die? A chip? A pill?

The image stilled.

It was a medical pill.

Arthur stared, confused.

What was it for? 

Arthur approached the holographic figure, reaching out.

His fingers met air.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Eames fizzed, dissipating with a hollow sound, like that of emptiness echoing through a tunnel. 

And, just as suddenly, a crowd of faceless figures entered, skating past Arthur. 

A crowd. 

Shoe hid between Arthur’s legs, curling her tail, unsettled.

Why was there a second memory?

Arthur looked for a familiar face but found none. It was only minutes later when he noticed the different backdrop.

Instead of the impersonal and clinical look of space colony buildings, hot air and obscurity reigned, and he stood between stalagmites and stalactites, sand under his feet. 

He was in a cave.

Shoe pawed at Arthur’s leg, and he picked her up, letting her hide in his shirt.

Lacking any other direction, Arthur decided to follow the current, like in a trance, trapped in the confines of a neo world.

The figures streamed downwards, and so he followed. 

There was a peculiarly shaped building at the bottom, where silhouettes with long coats stood guard. They wore luridly white masks and goggles that, despite their colour, evoked the macabre.

Some of them were dragging people away from the crowd. One of those people looked familiar, very quickly.

Black hair, and a slender frame. Shackled hands.

Arthur felt the hair at the back of his neck rise and stand on end. But before he could really figure out why he felt unsettled, the detainee turned his head.

It was both like and unlike looking into a mirror, and that dissonance made the feeling more eerie than comfortable.

It was him. 

Another him. 

Another Arthur.

A younger one?

Much less haggard. Much less burdened.

Another version of him, almost a stranger, almost someone else entirely.

He had a defiant gaze. A spark of quiet rage. Fearless resolution. He looked up and back at all the people in the cave, scanning the crowd like the crowd owed him the world.

Arthur held Shoe tighter against his chest then looked away when he felt his doppelganger’s eyes pass him.

But in averting his own gaze, Arthur found someone else in the crowd.

Eames.

In this memory of his, he was there, only a few arm’s lengths away, staring down at Arthur’s double.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Arthur didn’t know what to make of either memory. He hugged Shoe to sleep, his back to the stars, his mind flickering between the pill, his double, and Eames, until darkness overcame him, engulfed him like a black hole.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
He couldn’t remember what happened between then and now. He was suddenly walking down a long and narrow hallway. There was the distant sound of sliding doors and escalators humming and, if he strained his ears enough, people whispering, like murmurs of lost ghosts. A creeping feeling crawled up his spine.

Shoe was perched on his shoulder, eyes and ears alert as well.

He walked a little faster, then started running.

At the end of the hallway, after a vivid burst of light, there was a concourse swarming with pedestrians, a dome overhead.

A strange spherical apparatus overlooked the place. It had four hands moving counterclockwise, producing a whir on every revolution.

Arthur was surprised by how easily he could read it.

30:08:03:13. 

Two hours later, Arthur found himself in a spacious apartment. There was a tablet on the night-table with notifications sliding in. Shoe slipped off of Arthur and padded around, studying the place.

Something was wrong, but Arthur couldn’t put his finger on what exactly. He picked up the tablet and read a series of names. The names weren't familiar.

Nothing made sense.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
*  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Things only became less clear. There were too many blanks in Arthur’s memories, and the present was a broken continuum of time. Sometimes he would only blink, and find himself in another place, unable to remember how he got there.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
*  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Arthur stared at himself staring at another man staring at his double. And the more he stared, the more instances of him appeared, as if he had walked into an infinity mirror.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
*  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
In the next moment, Arthur found himself pointing a gun at a man. The man had his hands raised, shaking. He was begging for mercy. 

Arthur was vaguely confused, but somehow the circumstances felt right. The familiarity of the situation was unmistakable, and the feeling of cold metal under his finger was the closest thing to reality he'd felt in a while.

He pulled the trigger, then recalled nothing else of the aftermath.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
*  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Arthur rotated the coaster of his drink. There was no bartender at the bar. A holographic screen with a pixelated face blinked slowly back at him instead. “Refill?” it asked. 

Arthur had the feeling something important had been replaced, but the feeling was fleeting, and he found it more comfortable not to think about it.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
*  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Sometimes he could hear white noise.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
*  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
The bed felt too wide, and so did space.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
*  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
It took him a few moments of sleeplessness to realize that a cat was nestled into his side. 

“Shoe?” Arthur said, though before that moment he hadn't been aware he knew its name.

The cat responded with a short purr.

“Oh, thank god.” Arthur curled around her and before he really knew it, found himself crying into her fur. 

They stayed that way for a while. It was comforting.

Centuries went by before either made a move.

Shoe stretched her forelegs. She then twisted around and pawed Arthur’s face.

Arthur groaned. “I'm moved that you feel the same way.”

The cat made a rumbling sound and then pawed him more. Her collar jingled back and forth. 

“What are you--” Arthur lifted her up, scowling.

Her tag came into view.

It read: Schrodinger. Shoe squirmed, and it flipped to the other side.

Dead and alive.

Arthur sat up, setting her on his lap.

“Dead and… you're a … paradox?” Arthur asked. 

Shoe meowed, blinking slowly.

“Dead and…” Arthur felt around for the cat’s pulse.

She didn't have one.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Arthur’s first instinct was to reach out and grab a book on his night table. It was entitled The Theory of Everything by Charles Darwin.

He flipped it open. All the pages were blank.

He stumbled out of bed, Shoe following him as he frantically looked for other books.

They were all mismatched and empty.

Paradoxes.

“Non, rien de bien,” Arthur murmured. Shoe echoed him with short rumbles, pressing against his legs. He bent down and scratched her head, feeling dizzy and nauseous.

He tried to let the reality sink in, let the pieces click into place, tried to stay calm. But he couldn’t. His fingers were trembling, and his vision blurred. Memories inundated him. It was like reviving a world that had been locked up in distant history. Like remembering pieces of a childhood, from another lifetime.

This is limbo, he thought with a crushing sense of déjà-vu.

This is limbo, he thought. And he had to get out.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
There were a few ways out. He had a gun, but there was also the pill.

He found it in the cabinet of his restroom, and when he took it out he could barely hold it, he was shaking too much. 

Hadn’t he been in this business before? Shouldn’t he be used to this? Why was he still doubting it? All the signs were there.

“I’m in limbo,” he said, as if by saying it out loud, it would be more real.

There was a buzzing noise at the back of his head that was growing louder and louder, a noise that Arthur couldn’t shake off. He looked down at the pill and then up at Shoe.

She was uncharacteristically still and quiet. Her back was straight, her tail curled around her paws. She stared at Arthur with tacit understanding of the situation.

“Shit,” Arthur cussed. He looked down at the pill, and then back at Shoe. “Shit.”

He closed his fingers around the pill firmly and stalked to the bed, searching for his gun. Shoe followed him with light feet, intrigued. She jumped on the nightstand, her paws apart, scanning through the sheets as though she too knew exactly what he was looking for, and was looking for it, her pupils big and round.

“I’m not doing this because I like you,” Arthur clarified. 

Shoe just looked at him.

“Eames would want to know what was in the box--” Arthur tried to explain, but her expression pretty much settled it. “Okay, fine. You win. I don’t mind you.”

She jumped in front of him and then gave him a blank stare.

“What?” Arthur said, frowning.

She cocked her head and swished her tail.

“Eames is this friendly feline-devouring ogre,” Arthur said, pushing her away. “He’ll love you. You'll hit it off.”

Shoe meowed, but it was clear by the flick of her tail that she was going to give Arthur the benefit of doubt.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
The moment he found his gun, he grabbed it and scooped up Shoe. 

“I'm not going to force-feed it to you,” he told her as he laid the pill on the bed in front of her. “But I'll be very disappointed if I don't see you topside.” 

Shoe gave him a sort of nervous look.

“It won't hurt,” Arthur promised. He bent down and scratched her under the chin, one last time.

Then, with a strange sense of calm resolution, he left her, closing the door behind him.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
*  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
The gun felt cold against his temple, but it was a kind of cold that was welcome. 

Soon, this was all going to be over.


	3. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update - life got busy and busier...

Though the scenery had shifted, the world wasn’t so different, topside. 

What used to be open space and stars was only replaced with limestone ceilings, and orange rocks.

Arthur had woken up overwhelmed by light, foul sulphuric air, the frantic rush of unfamiliar faces. There was, as well, this strange feeling of constriction, which he later associated with the steady and perennial cadence of time, and the vertigo created from the dissonance of what he once knew and what he could barely remember.  
  
  
  
His memories returned at random. The reason he’d been in limbo at all came much later, hours after he had escaped the facility, guided by none other than Eames.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
It turned out, Eames had been someone Arthur worked with long before, on an extraction job. An acquaintance, really. Someone who had flirted with him once and given up because Arthur was a stubborn workaholic, a dull person devoid of a raison-d’être outside of labour. In a sea of strangers however, it was tenfold better than nothing. They had clicked right away, agreed to disagree, promised to cover each other's backs, because a common history meant that they existed in somebody else’s story too, and that in itself meant the world.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Everyone wanted to escape. The lack of sunlight deformed some and slowly killed others, feeling by feeling.

Limbo was the new paradise. Dreamshare became the new stage. Everyone wanted a piece of an artist’s imagination, or whatever was left of it, provided it showed them the sky and its expansiveness, among other things that were long gone.

It was all quite legitimate until the industry boomed, until skyrocketing demand required a Reaper to stay down below, to send masses of people back when the time was up.

No one volunteered to be one. 

So they had drawn lots.

And Fate had decided to point its crooked finger at Arthur.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
The first thing Arthur did when they had finally lost their tail was to punch him in the face.

“You promised you’d follow,” Arthur explained pointedly when Eames had looked back, a little bewildered, a little shaken, a hand to his cheek.

“Well, I’m here,” Eames said.

He looked worse for wear. Arthur felt a mix of anger, guilt, worry and remorse for having punched the guy, but he couldn’t help himself. 

“And we’re awake,” Eames continued.

Arthur scoffed, and then, unceremoniously, pulled Eames by the collar and kissed him. Fiercely, at first, but then, when Eames had rested his hands on Arthur’s hips and started pushing back against his lips, Arthur kissed more gently.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“Shoe,” Arthur said, relieved about seeing her at Eames’s hideout. It was a cave closer to the surface, hidden from the main path.

The cat gave Arthur a cursory glance, seeming mildly disinterested. She padded over to her empty bowl and sat, waiting impatiently.

“She didn't go under,” Eames clarified. “After the heist, I forged her. So I could stay. Dead and alive.”

Arthur frowned. “... what?”

“Limbo works differently for a forger. Also, she's called Schrody, not Shoe,” Eames said. He poured cat food into the bowl. Then, with more gravity he added, “they had earphones on you, kept reminding you of your job. Later, they realized it was better you didn't know you were dreaming.”

It explained the buzzing sound that Arthur kept hearing when he had been under.

The cat purred against Eames’s legs and Arthur’s, for good measure, before digging into her supper.

“You didn't recognize me, as a cat,” Arthur pointed out.

“I forgot. The limbo reset really took over. I was still recovering from the heist. And being a cat was so much easier,” Eames said, solemn. “Good thing you saw through it.”

Arthur nodded.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Arthur rolled the die between his fingers, feeling the liquid inside.

“Couldn't you just have shot me? Why the elaborate scheme? The convoluted idea? A space heist for a carton box containing a house cat? Really?”

“I would risk making it an Inception instead. You'd wake up thinking I'm someone who'd betray you, or you'd wake up thinking suicide is sexy, and we couldn't have that,” Eames answered. “You do flatter me though. It wasn't an elaborate scheme - it was mostly improvisation.”

Arthur exhaled. Shoe was resting on his chest. He scratched her head, and she started purring. 

“So what now?” Arthur asked.

“Well. We stay away from the Dream Factory and live out our lives, farm potatoes, grow old, enjoy the last of the planet.”

“I mean, what about us?” Arthur said.

Eames was quiet for a moment.

“Well, you know what wise men say,” Eames answered, leaning back into his chair. 

Their feet knocked together, and Arthur smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has left kudoses and/or comments! They mean a lot.
> 
> Please remember to check out Flos's [graphics](https://inceptionbigbang.tumblr.com/post/625227768662261760/flosculatory-inceptionbigbang-art-for) for this fic!!


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